The Futility of Games
by Rashaka
Summary: ENDER'S GAME/HIGHLANDER CROSSOVER ...short and intereting, if yuo only know Highlander than thats ok, you'll still get it. It a vignette about Ender's attitude toward fighiting.


[Ender's Game/ Highlander x-over]

I have to say that Ender's Game is not mine, it belongs to this wonderful writer whose name is escaping me at the moment. I'm sure if you want to know I'll remember later. It is my third favorite book of all time, and that's saying a lot cause I read furiously, like all the time. I'm like Ami from SM, but only when I have to stand in lines. And I don't walk and read at the same time—good way to trip. Ok, I'm babbling now. Um... I don't own Highlander either.

Please R&R

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The Futility of Games  
By Rashaka

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"Carl Mendeso is my favorite name of late," the man quipped, a grin lingering on his classic Roman features.

"Ender Wiggin."

"So you're him. It's strange— you're so normal looking."

Ender twirled his sword in his hand, loosening his muscles for the inevitable attack.

"The greatest tactician to ever live, the man who saved the human race at the age of twelve. I'm actually honored to meet you, believe it or not." The man kept shifting his weight, almost dancing about. It reminded Ender of a story he'd read once; it was about a mongoose that swung from side to side before attacking his enemy, a great king cobra called Nag. Well, Ender wasn't a cobra, and this man certainly wasn't what the writer had had in mind for his tale.

Ender put up no emotion for his opponent's benefit. "I can't say the same myself. We don't have to do this you know. You can turn away right now." Beneath the mask he was pleading the man to turn away. To not force Ender to do what he despaired.

The man's eyes flashed, but he put on the grin again. "Sorry, friend, but I think having your rather desirable Quickening outdoes any other good opportunity in my mind at the moment." He lunged as soon as the last word left his lips, and Ender brought his sword up to counter it without the least hesitation. If this was how it was going to be, then Ender would do what he always did. He would win.

Finding Mendeso's weakness wasn't hard. He kept his balance focused on the left foot when he retreated. He changed his attacks often, but always returned to his opening move. Ender parried around him in a deadly dance, waiting calmly until Mendeso once again resorted to the right-twist-right-left attack, then advanced forward and smoothly met it with his own blade, skittering close— too close for the sword. He hooked his leg behind Mendeso's left ankle and pulled it from out from beneath him.

Mendeso hit the ground on his back, his hand slamming into the rock surface. His blade was sent ricocheting out of reach. He rolled to the side and jumped up again, intending to get to the sword before Ender got to him. But Ender was faster, and Carl Mendeso never reached his goal.

The feeling of the Quickening exploded around Ender, taking his breath and his mind and his soul into a maelstrom of energy. It crackled and burned in the air, searing into his skin but leaving nothing in its path. The memories fractured into his psyche: the spear piercing his armor to bring him his First Death; a voice screaming at him in Latin, telling him that traitors like himself needn't worry, because it would all be over soon; a pair of big, terrified blue eyes looking up at him through thick lashes as the feel of hot skin beneath him thrilled his body; frenzied laughter drifting from his own lips; an intense desire for control over something—anything, no matter the cost.

He fell to his knees with a gasp, his eyes wearily looking around for his own sword. He caught sight of Carl Mendeso's body, and Ender grimaced. He hated this. He hated the Game, he hated the exhilarating rush the Quickening gave him, and he hated futility of it all. No matter where he went, no matter how many men he beat, they kept coming. It was too tempting a prize—the head of the legendary Ender Wiggin, who conquered the buggers and brought about the first colonization of the planets in outer space. Ender Wiggin, the genius soldier-child bred and raised for the sole purpose of saving the human race. What power a person could gain from that kind of Quickening. 

So they kept coming, and Ender kept killing.

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That's the story. Interested? Tell me! Cause it's a stand-alone fic now, but it could be more! I just need a response from the outside world and I will write, though I do write slow. For you sticklers for detail: I know, I know, Ender couldn't have been "bred" because all immortals are foundlings, but if I ever write more I'll talk about that.


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